[Illustration: New illustration created for the archive.]
The Karoo, an arid, semi-desert region in South Africa, is known for two things: sheep, and the farmers who own them. It also has a quaint annual music festival, but it’s not exactly Edinburgh. The events described below involve two such farmers. Piet van Tonder and Cyril MacKenzie were neighbors, and thus, by default, friends. You see, in the Karoo, one had better ensure that one’s neighbors are also one’s friends, for they are the only other humans that one is likely to encounter within a twenty-mile radius. Now, I don’t know much about sheep farming, and I can be reasonably sure that you don’t, either. However, I do know that Cyril and Piet, our courageous protagonists, knew everything there was to know about sheep farming. They were born for it. They ate it; they slept it; they breathed it. This of course meant that they were rather shallow, narrow-minded people who smelt like manure, despite wearing aftershave with a strong note of mint.
* * *
One night, Cyril was visiting Piet. Their wives were in the kitchen. You’ll forgive this dismissive tone toward the ladies, but I use it only because that’s exactly how Piet and Cyril thought of them. Wives were like sheep — necessary. And like sheep, they had their appropriate place — in the kitchen.
“Ya, Cyril, but it’s a lekker evening, hey? You can see the stars nice tonight, what with there being no moon and all. Do you wan’ another beer, boet?” Piet’s Afrikaans heritage lends a great deal of color to his spoken English.
“Ya, cheers, Piet. Another beer would do me nicely. Speaking of stars, look at that really bright one… three… Hey, what’s going on? I better not have another beer, boet. I’m starting to see triple.” Cyril burst out laughing at his own incredible wit, an annoying habit that Piet had learnt to live with. This was the Karoo, after all. But indeed, Cyril was right; he had had too much beer. He also was right about the appearance of three strange bright lights in the Karoo night sky. And they were getting brighter. “No, seriously Piet, you need to check out these lights, I’m not talking kak!” said Cyril.
Piet wove his drunken way over to the edge of the veranda where Cyril was standing, staring into the starry sky. “Ya, you right, hey Cyril? What do you think they is?”
“Maybe they’re UFOs. You know? Unseasonal firefly outfits.” Cyril let out a huge guffaw at what he perceived to be an exceedingly witty comment. Piet didn’t get it.
The sad truth of the matter is that Cyril was actually quite correct. These were UFOs, although it is no longer considered P.C. to call them that, as it may encourage ufophobic reactions against innocent “Beings of Other Origins”, as they now prefer to be called — or BOOOs for short.
* * *
Meanwhile, elsewhere on the Van Tonder farm, the other famous Karoo inhabitants had also noticed the bright lights and were getting restless. Now, I don’t claim to be able to speak sheep, but if I did, then what one might have heard that fateful night in the Karoo would have sounded something like, “The e-e-e-e-e-e-end i-i-i-i-i-i-i-is ni-i-i-i-i-i-igh!”
* * *
The three BOOO craft had landed a few hundred yards from the veranda of Piet van Tonder’s farmhouse. Neither he nor Cyril Mackenzie were anywhere to be seen. Then the curtain covering the front window moved aside slightly, so that Piet and Cyril could peek at the unusual vessels that had landed in front of them. Their wives were still in the kitchen. This wasn’t important enough for Cyril and Piet to disturb them. Rather let them just keep cooking! Piet had taken the precaution of arming himself with a shotgun and had given Cyril his hunting rifle.
“So… what’s gonna happen now, Piet?” said Cyril.
“Dunno.”
“Do think we should go and find out what they want?”
“Dunno.”
“So… we’ll just wait here then?”
“Dunno. What you think?”
“Ya, I reckon we just wait and see what’ll happen.”
They didn’t have to wait long. A shaft of light cut through the darkness, as a doorway on the central craft slid open. Two more shafts of light joined it, as the other crafts opened their doors. Then, as if choreographed, three ramps simultaneously extended to the ground. A figure was silhouetted against the light pouring from each of the doorways, poised to descend the ramps. From what they could see, Cyril and Piet estimated the figures to be about three-foot tall, with oversized heads.
The strange dance continued as the figures made their way down the ramps, each followed by another, and another, and another, assembling on the ground in front of the ships. The strict organization, and the rows of creatures standing to attention, made Piet and Cyril feel queasy as they remembered their days in the army. Those first six months of basic training were hell, not that the subsequent eighteen months on the border were any better.
“Do you think they want a fight, hey, Piet?” said Cyril.
“Dunno.”
“Should we shoot at them maybe?”
“Dunno.”
“So… we’ll just wait here then?”
“Dunno. What you think?”
“Ya, I reckon we just wait and see what’ll happen.”
Three squads of twelve BOOOs stood in formation, lit up by three shafts of light from the still-open doorways of the spaceships. A group of three broke off from the rest and made their way towards Piet’s homestead. As they drew closer to the house, the light from the veranda shimmered off their silver space suits. They were wearing helmets with visors that concealed their faces. One of them appeared to have markings on its suit that distinguished it as the leader of the group. They reached the stairs of the veranda, which made an eerie clunking sound as their space boots bore them toward the front door. And there they stopped, three three-foot-high BOOOs of unclear intent.
Piet and Cyril were shaking with fear.
“What should we do now, boet?” quivered Cyril.
“Dunno.”
“Should we answer the door, maybe?”
But before Piet could utter his profound response, the leader of the creatures banged on the door. The kind of slow, determined knock that sends shivers down one’s spine.
KNOCK!… KNOCK!… KNOCK!
Piet loaded his shotgun. “I’ve read about these things, man, Cyril. These things aren’t taking me alive, boet! I’m not a bloody experiment!”
“Slow down, old pal. We don’t even know what they want yet, man. Maybe we should ask them. I’ll stand behind you with the gun… you know… just in case.”
“Are you bloody mad, man!? I’m not asking them nothing!”
Just then, a strange feeling came over Piet and Cyril, like they were floating on air. It’s uncanny how one thinks one knows what it would feel like to float on air. But Piet and Cyril were genuinely surprised by the feeling of the real thing. You see, by some amazing technology we have yet to understand, the BOOOs had taken control of Cyril and Piet’s bodies, lifted them off the ground and were spiriting them toward the front door — on the other side of which stood the BOOO delegation. Or were they an advanced attack force?
“Ag, no man, Piet! What’s happening now? We’re doomed for sure!” shouted Cyril.
“Dunno. But I’m kakking myself, man, Cyril!”
As they reached the door, it was opened by some unseen force, and Piet and Cyril stood before, or rather towered over, the three short creatures whose visors still covered their faces, obscuring their identities. Then the lead creature’s visor slid up to reveal a countenance that made Piet and Cyril reel in sheer terror.
It spoke. “We have come to free our people!”
But all Cyril and Piet heard was: “B-a-a-a-a-a-a!”
* * *
They now farm corn. *
About the Author: David G. Kirchhoffer was born and raised in Johannesburg, South Africa. He currently lives in Belgium where he is doing his doctorate in Theological Ethics. He has never lived in the Karoo and has no experience with sheep.
(c) 2007 David G. Kirchhoffer
